


Beg Pretty for Me

by kittimau



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Plug, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Universe, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Dean Winchester Has a Panty Kink, Dean Winchester Wears Panties, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gentle Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Hair-pulling, Human Castiel (Supernatural), I'm a writer I can do anything, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbating Dean Winchester, Masturbation, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Panty Kink, Phone Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 15, Praise Kink, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, The finale never happened because I said so, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau
Summary: Team Free Will won, Dean and Cas are in love, and all is right with the world.“Cas…” His eyes flutter closed, mind slipping into the warm, pleasant haze of that special place, the one that allows him release, relief.Peace.Heart pounding in his chest, he fights the temptation to touch himself through the delicate material because Cas hasn’t told him to yet and he wants to begood.“I want to hear you say it, Dean.”“Fuck…” He swallows thickly. “Yeah. I-I feel beautiful.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 74
Kudos: 454
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	Beg Pretty for Me

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> Special thanks to [dothraki_shieldmaiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden/works) for her endless inspiration, cheerleading, and support 💕 and to Lucia for giving it a final once-over.

Things are good.

Like, _really good_.

Sammy‘s already asleep in his room with the excuse of the long drive back from Eileen’s leaving him wiped out. Dean didn’t buy that for a hot second and didn’t pass up the opportunity to tease Sam with “so... practice any sign language?” (The bitchface was worth it.) Jokes aside, he’s happy for him. Eileen’s a great chick; smart, tough, witty, stubborn. Keeps Sam on his toes and puts that goofy, love-struck smile on his face.

Sometimes Dean’s still gotta pinch himself, a physical reassurance that yeah, this is their life now. This is _real._

There's no more Chuck or world-ending prophecies. No more destiny, or “chosen one” bullshit. Unfortunately, the things that go bump in the night didn’t up and vanish, but there’s a whole new generation of hunters to help keep ‘em at bay.

With all the resources at their disposal, Sam taking point on training and research, Amara getting Heaven back in order, and Rowena downstairs whipping Hell into shape, they’re leagues away from where they started the day Dean snuck into Sam’s apartment with, “Dad went on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a few days,” on his lips and fear in his heart.

There’s no Apocalypse on the horizon, no more Big Bads. For the first time in Dean’s life, he can actually see retirement on the horizon and it doesn’t feel like an empty promise.

Smiling at the thought, he parks himself against the edge of the stainless steel island in the kitchen, listening to the hum of electricity and machinery keeping the bunker running with a beer in hand and his own special person on his mind.

Cas is with Jack, Claire, and Kaia, clearing a vamp nest in southern Texas. Dean had already been halfway to Oregon following a lead when the call came in— _fucking ghouls,_ he thinks with a shudder _—_ and though Cas had wanted to go along with him, it'd been Dean’s idea for him to stay behind. Jack might be an all-powerful nephilim and hunter-in-training, but they’re still just a kid, and with Sam busy tracking leads and appointing cases to the rest of their steadily growing network, at least one of ‘em had to stick around to help them out (and keep him out of trouble).

So maybe Dean’s regretting that decision now. Just a little.

Okay, a lot.

Although they’ve called and texted daily during their time apart, tonight marks eight days since he’s seen his angel (well, ex-angel). Eight days since he last kissed him, tasted his skin or heard his throaty moans.

His eyes fall to the silver counter below as a memory resurfaces; just a month ago, he’d been in this exact position with Cas knelt between his legs, hands pinning his hips to the cold steel, perfect pink lips wrapped around him, sucking and licking and teasing until Dean was a squirming, whimpering mess.

His dick twitches with excitement, which is incredibly frustrating because nothing he can do alone will ever equal the way Cas takes him apart piece by piece, fucks him into his memory foam so hard he nearly forgets his name, and puts him back together with gentle caresses and admissions of love and worship.

Fuck, how he wishes at this moment that Cas still had wings because those days of calling for him without the constraints of human travel have long since passed but are still close enough to taste the memories of.

He's walking back down the hall to his room when his phone buzzes in his back pocket. Nudging the door open with a shoulder, he thumbs the screen of his phone as he lifts it to his ear.

“Hello, Dean.”

He grins. “Heya, Sunshine. You've got awesome timing.”

“Oh?”

“I was just thinking about you.”

“Hmm. I’ve been thinking of you too.”

“Yeah? Anything specific on your mind?” he says suggestively, feeling playful. Not like Cas will get the implication, anyway.

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah.” He plops into the chair at his desk and takes a long pull from the beer. “Why? Where are you?”

“At a motel in Boerne. Also alone.”

“Uh,” he mutters intelligently.

Cas ignores Dean’s fumble, for which he’s oddly grateful. “You’re in your room?”

“Yes. Wait, where’s Jack?”

“With the girls. They are ‘hanging out’.”

A shuffle of movement gives away Castiel’s air quotes and Dean snorts, fondly shaking his head. “What about the—”

“Taken care of,” Cas interrupts, a hint of impatient exasperation coloring his tone. “But I don’t want to talk about that right now, Dean.”

“ _Okay_ , what’s up?”

“I’d like for you to take off your clothes.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“Seriously? You uh, you wanna… Right now?”

“Yes, Dean. I want to have ‘phone sex’ with you.”

His cheeks heat and eyes widen at the request. He hadn’t expected Cas to take the bait because, for one, twelve years on Earth still hasn’t made him the master of subtlety, and two, they’ve never actually done _that_ before. This thing between them, whatever it is (lovers, partners, boyfriends?), is still kinda new although it’d hung thick in the air between them for _years_ , and it's easier somehow to let go and simply _feel_ when Cas is here in front of him, touching him, distracting him from his own mind. Over the phone like this, he feels awkward and exposed. Logically, it should be the reverse, but then again no one's ever accused Dean of being logical.

Despite his trepidation, the lustful determination in Castiel’s voice sends a thrill quivering through him. Blunt and straightforward as the day he walked into that barn, Cas knows what he wants and has no embarrassment around sex or the human body.

Unfortunately, Dean has it in spades.

It’s always been difficult to talk openly about what he wants, to share those vulnerable parts of himself. To top it off, he’s never had the _time_ to build that sort of trust with anyone. But with Castiel... Fuck, everything is different with Cas.

He pulled Dean out of Hell, gave up everything for him. Died for him, more than once. Stood by him for over a decade. Cas has seen the deepest, darkest parts of him—shit, he’s seen Dean’s _soul_. He knows Dean more intimately than anyone in the universe, even his own brother, so with Cas, he doesn’t have to say a word. Cas is sensitive to his needs. Knows without being asked how to give him exactly what he desires, how to take the reins and lift the yolk of responsibility from Dean’s shoulders.

What Cas lacked in practical experience when they started having sex he’s sure as shit made up for with raw enthusiasm, an utter lack of shame, and possibly a porn habit to rival his own. Took him a while to grasp some stuff, like dirty talk, but once he saw the affect it had on Dean he went all out. Same for kinks (Cas even told him he’s been “researching,” whatever the fuck that means), and of course, dude takes it on with the same solemnity and conviction he does everything. 

From day one, Cas made it perfectly clear that no matter what, Dean still has the final say, total control, yet submitting to Cas provides Dean with a sense of freedom unlike any other. With Cas, he’s not a brother (and unwitting father), not a hunter, or, as it was once-upon-a-time, Michael’s favorite meat suit. He doesn’t have to be the leader here, doesn’t have to make the hard decisions. Or on some nights, any decisions at all.

“Dean?”

“Y-yeah,” he whispers softly and begins fumbling at the button of his fly with trembling fingers, the phone jammed between his ear and shoulder. His knuckles brush against his slowly filling cock and a pleasurable shudder rushes through him, heady and enticing.

It’s beyond awkward though, and more than once as he wiggles the denim down his legs the phone threatens to slip from where it’s wedged and crash to the floor, but he manages to drop both the jeans and his boxers before Cas speaks again.

“Finished?”

“Almost.” Dean puts the phone down long enough to shirk out of his flannel and pull the t-shirt over his head. “Okay, okay I’m ready,” he says, panting a little from the combined buzz of alcohol and curious elation. “What, uh, what now?”

“Very good,” Cas purrs on the other end of the line. “I miss you, Dean. Will you let me see you?”

A wicked idea flits through his mind. There’s something he has hidden which Cas has yet to see, and although he’s a little scared of his reaction, this has put him in an experimental mood. Castiel is doing something new for him once again, bridging the physical distance between them to satisfy his needs, and he wants to return the favor. Wants to _please_ him. To share the pieces of himself Cas doesn't know and hasn’t seen, rare as they are.

“Gimme a sec?”

“Alright.”

Dean puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the desk. Trembling with anticipation, he tugs open a dresser drawer, reaching beneath the layers until his fingers graze the soft, silken material buried there. Once freed, he rubs the black satin between thumb and forefinger. Presses it gently to his cheek, relishing the caress of it over his heated skin. It soothes, comforts, emboldens him just as much as arouses and a moan slips past his lips unbidden.

“You’d better not be touching yourself yet,” Cas growls through the nearby receiver.

“No! No, I’m uh. Hold on.”

Hurriedly, he slides the cloth over his feet and up his bowed legs. Adjusts the fit until his now-hard, throbbing cock sits perfectly, the swollen and blushing head peeking through the top of the lace waistband, just above a tiny pink bow. He grabs his phone, tongue darting out over his plump lower lip as he turns the camera on and snaps several pictures. But something feels off, taking them standing like this in the middle of his room, so he lies down on the bed instead.

Back against the headboard, he props up one knee, lets his legs fall slightly akimbo, and reaches his free hand down to tease at the lace edge. Hair wrecked from disrobing so messily, his eyelids hang low and heavy with lust, the gentle lamplight throwing his features into sharp relief. Somehow he knows this is the one, and before he can overthink it, he hits send.

The moment Cas receives it is punctuated by a harsh gasp. “ _Oh_ , Dean. Fuck. _Panties_?”

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, nodding even though Cas can’t see him. “You like?” he whispers nervously.

“I like _—_ very, _very_ much.” Dean hears rustling, the drag of a zipper below Cas’ breaths, and pictures Cas palming himself through his boxers to the image of Dean laid out and wanton like this, just for him. “I wish I were there right now.”

“I wish you were too.”

“I’ll bet those feel wonderful on you, don’t they? So soft, so beautiful. Do they make you feel beautiful, Dean? Because you are. You’re gorgeous.”

The flush upon his cheeks spreads down his neck from the compliment, warms him from within until he glows with it.

Dean’s not oblivious, and when he is it’s usually at least _somewhat_ intentional; he’s a master of burying the things he’d rather not shine a light upon. Shoving them down, down, into the dark places where he can ignore them, however temporarily because they fester regardless. It’s something he’s working on. Has been for a long damn time, reluctantly.

Sam’s helped, but he’s also learned not to push, not like he used to. Cas though, it’s Cas who’s really bringing it all out into the open. Reading him like a friggin’ book now that some of the air’s cleared between them (it’s not perfect, but they’re getting there, they’re making progress. Healing together).

Dean knows he’s attractive. He’s used that to his advantage, used it to fill a void he knew existed but at certain points denied, feigned ignorance of. Wielded it like a weapon, one that’s also been turned on him more times than he can count. Sharpened, dug in deep. By hunters, old acquaintances of John’s (shit, even by John himself a couple of times to prove a point). By men in skeevy bars, sneering lips curved around bottles, eyes dark and wanting in a way that made his skin crawl, made him fold in on himself, made him hate his own reflection like nothing else could. By cops, monsters, demons. Shit like, “You have delicate features for a hunter,” and, “What’s a pretty little twink like you doing in a place like this,” and, “Heard you were handsome. But you’re just edible,” and, “Look at those cocksucking lips”.

But this? _Beautiful?_

The first time Cas said it, that sullied part of Dean, that bit of his soul that never quite healed from those old scars, rebelled against it. Recoiled. He’d shaken it off, the embarrassment and humiliation of it wriggling and slithering uncomfortably just beneath his skin. Shame, disgust, self-loathing. 

Cas saw. Cas knew it would take time, and it has. 

Even now, it’d offend and insult him coming from anyone else. But when Cas says this, it’s not pain he intends to inflict. It’s not rubbing salt in Dean’s wounds—it’s a salve. Cas means it with absolute sincerity. He says “beautiful” with a voice full of awe, pure adoration, and though it still feels a little weird hearing it like that Dean trusts Cas implicitly, knows he means it, knows it isn’t simply about his face or body (although Cas sure as shit appreciates them, made that clear enough with this awkward monologue on the golden ratio one time). When Cas calls Dean beautiful, he means all of him, inside and out. Makes him feel _worthy_.

“Cas…” His eyes flutter closed, mind slipping into the warm, pleasant haze of that special place, the one that allows him release, relief. _Peace._ Heart pounding in his chest, he fights the temptation to touch himself through the delicate material because Cas hasn’t told him to yet and he wants to be _good_.

“I want to hear you say it, Dean.”

“Fuck…” He swallows thickly. “Yeah. I-I feel beautiful.”

“Thank you. You’ve made me very happy.”

The reddening of his flesh spreads like wildfire. “Can I see you now, too?” he pleads.

There’s a brief silence before his phone pings. And son of a bitch, Cas is already completely nude, spread out on the cheap paisley motel duvet, miles of tanned skin begging for Dean’s mouth, his hands. Castiel’s hair is an absolute disaster like he’s been running those long, slender fingers through it all night, pink lips puffy from obvious biting, hooded eyes dark and intense. From the angle, Cas holds the phone near his hip, giving Dean a glorious view of its sharp edge.

And that’s not even the best part.

Dean’s only been with a few men in his life. Secret rendezvous, mostly back when he was hunting alone (well, and there was that threesome during his demon stint). But he can safely say Cas has a dick _made_ for fucking porn. Gorgeously flushed, long, and thick, it strains proud and straight toward the divot of his bellybutton with Cas’ elegant fingers spread around the base in a tempting V.

Whining with the need to taste the little bead of precome glistening at its tip, Dean licks his lips and murmurs, “Shit, Cas, you look so fucking good. I want to suck you so bad. Wanna feel you.”

Humming appreciatively, Cas promises, “We’ll have time for that soon.”

“When?” Jesus, he sounds clingy as hell, but he can’t even bring himself to care.

Cas heaves a sigh. “If I leave early in the morning, I can make it back to the bunker by 6:30 or 7 p.m. tomorrow.” He pauses. Then his voice drops even lower. Tinny though it is through the phone, it’s a familiar tone, one that brooks no arguments and compels Dean to listen, to _obey_. “Tonight, I want to listen to you fuck yourself. Pretend it’s my cock you’re riding, filling you up and breaking you apart. I want you begging for me, Dean, pleading for me to let you come. And you won’t come, not until I tell you, because you want to be a good boy for me. Isn’t that right?”

_Holy shit._

His brain short-circuits, going completely blank with the overwhelming thrum of desire flooding his veins because _fuck_ , that’s gotta be the single hottest thing he's ever heard.

Sure, the guy’s usually a massive dork. Cas has what Dean feels is an unnatural obsession with ecological conservation, terrible taste in music, and he uses more emojis in his texts than a teenager. He still doesn’t get the majority of Dean’s references despite the encyclopedia Metatron involuntarily uploaded into his brain years ago, drinks enough coffee to put a lesser man’s ticker permanently out of commission, and his sense of humor goes down like a mouthful of cotton.

But that assured, commanding demeanor comes out in exactly two situations; battle and the bedroom, and it’s always a stark reminder that Cas is no ordinary man. A former multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent or whatever the fuck, Castiel is _eons_ old. Witnessed the formation of the universe, commanded heavenly armies, razed Hell to save _him_ , the Righteous Man. Has even _been God_.

Though to be fair, it fucking sucked and drove him psycho, and yeah… Dean doesn't like thinking about that _—_

" _Dean_."

He inhales sharply, realizing only now he'd been holding his breath, and utters the first stupid thing to cross his mind.

“Holy shit.”

“I need an actual answer, Dean.” Is it possible to _hear_ someone roll their eyes? 'Cause if so, he's pretty sure Cas did just that. Fuck, Dean's an idiot for this guy.

“Yes. God, yes. All of that.”

“If at any time you’re uncomfortable or want to stop, you will tell me, yes?”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Cas chuckles. “Regardless, what is your safe word?”

“Impala.”

“Will you use it if or when you want to stop?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand that it’s okay to use it?”

“I know.”

“Very good, thank you. Now, you’ll need lubrication and a toy, whichever you like. Set them on the bed.”

Dean rolls toward the nightstand on his side of the bed and flings open the drawer, fishing out the lube. He knows exactly which toys he wants tonight, too, so he sets the vibrating plug and his favorite dildo by the pillows. They’ve got nothing on Cas because ain’t no way cool silicone can match the silken skin of Cas’ cock, the throbbing heat of it that makes him feel so alive, or how Cas puts it to such masterful use. But using them knowing Cas is listening? Getting off to it right along with him? Fuck yeah, they’ll do just fine.

“Got ‘em,” he says almost breathlessly.

“What did you choose?”

He swallows the lump in his throat. It feels so weird saying this shit aloud. “The, uh—the vibrating plug and the blue dildo.”

“Perfect.” Dean can practically hear Cas smirking through the line. _Smug bastard._ “Kneel on the bed, sitting up, and face the back wall.”

“Okay.”

"Are you hard for me, Dean?"

Dean chokes down the desperate sound threatening to erupt from his throat and closes his eyes, slipping _down, down, down_ into that luxuriating calm where nothing matters but this moment, this beautiful here and now. With a long exhale, he settles upon his knees, heels digging into the meat of his ass, heavy yet weightless as the rolling tide with Cas as his guiding moon, his gravitational pull.

“Hell yes,” he murmurs.

“Lovely,” Castiel croons. “Now get the lubricant, spread it on your fingers. Don't take off the panties, and do not touch your cock. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Shift the panties aside just enough to slide those fingers down your perineum. Move them in circles around your rim. A little pressure, but don't go inside yet.”

Dean bites his lip to muffle another whine.

“That's it, sweetheart. You're gonna be so tight for me, so hot. Push in one finger now, dragging against the rim with your knuckle as you go. Slowly. Slide it in and out, tugging and pulling, loosening yourself up until you're ready for a second finger.”

“Fuck!” The lube soothes the mild burn as the taut muscle stretches and gives, and it doesn't take long before he’s pliant and aching for the second one. “I’m… shit. I’m ready for more.”

“Go ahead, Dean.”

Within minutes he's rocking down against his hand, nudging against his prostate on every third or fourth stroke, the head of his cock rubbing ruthlessly between his lower abdomen and lace with each shift of tense thighs, _up, down, up._ He begs for more, and Cas, _thank fuck_ , allows a third, but it's simultaneously too much and not enough.

“ _Cas…_ ”

“Good boy. You may put in the plug, now.”

He scrambles to grab it and slick it up, eagerly aligning the plug with his stretched and needy hole. It slides in with just enough resistance to elicit a hiss, and being much thicker in girth than his fingers alone, nestles directly against his prostate when he sits back on his heels again.

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks after allowing him a pause to catch his breath.

“Good, Cas. Real good.”

“Turn it on. Keep it at the lowest level.”

He reaches behind himself, thumbing awkwardly at the flat, round base for the little switch, and when it kicks on—

“Ah! Oh God, fuck fuck fuck—”

Cas makes a soft, shushing noise of comfort. “That’s it, sweetheart. You are doing so well for me.”

Dean takes another shaky breath, steeling himself before whispering, “Thank you.” He's got this.

“Close your eyes. I want you to imagine your hands are my hands, alright?"

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes out, a full-body shudder rolling through him.

“Take one hand and grip your hair. Gently, though. Just scratch at your scalp, no pulling. _Yet_.”

Dean's skin tingles with the shock of that promise and he moans as his— _no, Cas'_ —fingers card through his soft, short locks.

“You love to be petted like this, don't you?”

“Yes,” he all but whines.

“My good boy. Now take the fore and middle fingers of your other hand and tease your lips. Imagine my fingers there, prodding for entry. Slide them slowly inside. Lick them, Dean. Get them nice and wet.” Spit dribbles down his chin, trailing through his five-o-clock shadow and he moans, lapping at his thick fingers, sloppy and sinful, already so impatient for more. “Take those fingers and trace them over your jaw. Down the length of your neck. Across your collarbone.”

So he does, following his angel’s instructions to the letter. It’s a delicious torment, each soft caress ramping up his heart rate that much more, bringing a heaviness to each breath that makes his chest ache.

“Tease your right nipple. Rub and circle and pinch. That's my mouth, Dean, licking and sucking and biting your beautiful freckled skin. I bet it's flushed such a pretty pink for me right now, isn't it?”

A surprisingly soft sound of agreement bubbles from his throat. “Mmm… Feels good.”

“You're doing wonderfully, Dean,” Cas praises. His heart's already thundering beneath his ribs in rhythm to the relentless pulses against his prostate, blood rushing in his ears, but the praise? That’s on another level. It does things to him not even touch can, and Cas knows it. Sweat trickles from his brow and, tossing his head skyward, he flicks it away from his closed eyes. “Now slick those fingers up again and move on to the left nipple. Make it hard and sore for me.”

How can Cas sound so fucking composed, his voice coming out even and methodical like he's reading aloud from a lore manual or spell book? Dean's practically writhing on the sheets, nipples perky and tender, cool air settling upon his warm saliva in a contrast that sends shivers down his spine. Trapped between satin, lace, and the coarse hair of his treasure trail, his cock pulses desperately with each jolt of friction as he shifts his pelvis forward and back. And there Cas is with his gravelly voice comin' out like whiskey and velvet, smooth and steady even as it burns going down. He's a bastard, and the snarky, rebellious part of Dean itches to let him know it.

What comes out instead is a breathy, “Cas, please…”

 _Son of a bitch_ , he's so whipped.

But then Cas groans, rough and lascivious, and _oh_ , maybe he's not so unaffected after all. A sly thought crosses Dean's mind. He did say he wanted to hear Dean beg, and he loves cracking Cas' stoic facade just as much as Cas likes turning Dean into a damn puddle. Which he’s definitely succeeding at right now, because Dean’s _starving for it_. He wants more. _Needs_ more.

“Please, Cas, I _need_ you. Need your fat cock splitting me open so fuckin' bad.”

“Fuck,” Cas growls. _Finally_ , Dean hears the slap of flesh against flesh through the phone, and the image of Cas stripping his dick while listening to Dean fuck his own tight hole, panting and whining for more, sends such a strong bolt of arousal through him that his cock weeps another drop of precome. “Pull your hair now Dean. Make it hurt.”

Without thought, his free hand automatically winds between the strands and _shit—_ he yelps as the pain reverberates through him, a million tiny nerves blaring warning signals at once, shooting from his crown down his spine and making his toes curl. His fingers tighten when Cas groans his approval, nails scraping against sensitive skin.

“Such a good little slut for me,” Cas tells him, and goddamn if that doesn’t do all kinds of things to his insides, telling Dean whatever Cas wants, he will do. He’ll get on his knees, he’ll fucking grovel because Cas is perfect, always so good to him, Dean loves him so much and he’s practically vibrating with how badly he wants to taste and smell and touch and—

“Only for you, Cas,” he pants. “I’m yours, your little slut. _Please_ , baby, I’ll do anything, I—”

“I know you will, sweetheart,” Cas says, pausing for breath. His angel is waiting for something, purposefully dangling Dean over the edge of that sweet, agonizing precipice. He crests upon the endless waves of pleasure, mind growing hazy with arousal as every synapse fires like ricocheting shotgun shrapnel, muscles growing sore and stiff from the position though his body feels almost weightless and just as he’s about to give in and _really_ beg for it, Cas finally commands, “Take out the plug now. Are you ready?”

He was ready fucking _yesterday_.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, okay.” His fingers slip and slide as they twist and tug the base of the plug. After a brief struggle and frustrated grunt, he pulls it free, his gaping, wet hole clenching and pulsing around empty space, and pleads, “Need you.”

“So greedy for it.”

“Need to be filled, baby, please. But—”

“But what?”

“Can I move?”

“No,” Cas snarls, but then softens his tone. “I want you on your knees.”

Legs numb and tingling from the lack of circulation, he whimpers but complies, eager to play out Castiel’s fantasy in whatever way he demands.

“Are you using your word?”

“No.”

“Then you’re going to stay just like this and ride that cock as if it were mine. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand. I’m ready for it.”

“Good. Put it in, now. Let me hear you.”

He lubes up the dildo and, holding the panties once again to the side, presses the slippery-smooth head to his rim. Pushes it in slowly though he wants so damn badly to go faster, letting out a moan of Cas’ name as it pops through the tight ring of muscle and he begins to pump his hips down against it. _Thrust, stretch, gasp, thrust._ By the time he finally works down to the base, the blood in his veins is lighting him up from within, his skin burning hot with want, thighs shaking, chest heaving, pretty panties soaked with lube and precome and sweat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says weakly. “It’s-it’s so big.”

“Tell me how it feels, Dean.”

“Good, so good. I’m—oh shit, baby, I’m close. Please, please, can I touch my dick, fuck, Cas—”

Cas chuckles darkly, but he can hear him speeding up the pace of his own hand. “Not yet. Want to see you like this.” He keens with desperation only to be met with, “ _Show me_ , Dean.”

Wiping a spit and lube-covered hand on the blanket (he really shoulda put down a towel. Oh well, too late now), he thumbs open the camera and does his best to angle it so Cas gets a good view. After several tries he thinks, _screw it_. He takes a short video instead, first putting his stretched and puffy pink hole on full display, ass and legs taut and trembling. Then brings the phone around to his front so Cas can see his entire body’s flushed and gleaming, hair an outright mess, cock red and pulsing and leaking all over his panties. Dean’s irises are overtaken by black, cheeks tinged dark pink and stained with tears he didn’t even know he’d been crying. He looks positively _debauched_ already and _he loves it._

“Yes,” Cas groans, husky and deep. “Yes, just like that. You’re beautiful. So beautiful, and all mine.”

The knowledge that he’s getting Cas off like this, just with his image and voice, leaves him teetering on that cliff, so ready to fall that it _hurts_.

“Yeah, yours…” He ruts against the dildo and _fuck_ it’s right on his prostate like this and every upward shift rubs his cockhead against the satin and lace and his legs are on fire, he’s not gonna make it, he’s too close— “Gonna… gonna come, Cas,” he begs, voice rough and fucked-out, “please, please can I come?”

“Touch your cock through the panties, Dean,” Cas says and Dean can tell he’s close too, composure fracturing more with each passing second. “Want to make you come in them, get them all wet and filthy like the needy slut you are.” He immediately goes to work, rubbing roughly at the smooth satin over his head as he rises and falls, bouncing between the toy and the brutal tease of his fingers, rambling in near gibberish while Cas spouts filth through the phone. “When I get home… I want to fuck your pretty mouth, Dean… gonna paint your freckles with my come. Then I’m gonna blindfold you, shove my tongue in your tight little hole, tease you till you cry and beg for my cock—”

“Yeah, yeah Cas. Please. I want it, I want it so bad. Fucking come all over me, baby, mark me up and make me yours—”

“Fuck, Dean...”

“Tell me, Cas… please, please, _please_ , I can’t—”

“Come,” Cas growls. “Come for me.”

The pitiful, guttural cry that rips from him should be utterly humiliating, but Dean’s too blissed-out to care as his mind blanks and body shudders, spurts of thick, hot come painting his hand and stomach and he collapses then, the dildo slipping out as he falls to the mattress trembling and crying and utterly _wrecked_.

Seconds later, Cas follows with a shout of his name and Dean hums, sated and content, muffled where his mouth is smashed into the blanket right beside the phone. They remain like that for minutes, hours, he can’t tell, just listening to each other breathing. Warmth unfurls within his chest and he feels light, so light, drifting upon clouds when he realizes Cas has been repeating a question.

“Mmmm?” he mumbles in response.

“Are you alright?”

“‘M great… that… you were great.”

Cas chuckles sleepily. “As were you. Thank you, Dean. You did very well. I’m so proud of you.”

His mouth attempts a smile but his muscles are far too loose to manage much more than a half-hearted twitch. “‘M tired.”

“Can you clean yourself up?”

Dean grumbles. He doesn’t know if he can move or that he wants to but is still aware enough to surmise Cas isn’t asking so much as telling. “‘Kay...”

“Drink some water for me, too. Will you do that?”

“Yeah. Come home soon.”

“I will. Goodnight, Dean." A little pause, a soft gust of air. Then, "I love you.”

That does make him smile, however lazily, because he knows it to be true. Always has been.

“Love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **Update 12/09/20:**   
> 
> 
> Now that the final episodes have aired I feel compelled to clarify some things in this "AU" version of a post-series Supernatural (tags have also been updated). I figured they were going to make Jack the new God due to the direction the storyline had been heading, but I prefer the idea of keeping him with his family, so in this world Jack helped free Amara from Chuck's grasp. Amara then absorbed Chuck's power (because she's a BAMF like that and it's what she deserves, okay), leaving Chuck human as the ultimate poetic justice. Jack rejoined TFW2.0 and is still a nephilim.
> 
> The team rescued Cas from the Empty (with Cas willingly choosing to sacrifice his grace in the process, so he's human now but of his own volition) and Dean was finally given the opportunity to speak his truth. This fic would take place several months after my version of the finale (because canon can suck it).  
> 
> 
> Anyway... lemme know what you think down in the comments!
> 
> If you'd like to receive updates for this or my other works, hit that [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/profile) button.
> 
> Want to talk with me about Destiel, SPN, or writing? Find me on [Tumblr](https://kmauspn.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kittimau1). 💙💚


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